


tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine

by thewalrus_said



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Body Horror, Canon Retelling, Don't copy to another site, Emetophobia, Hanahaki Disease, In which I continue to push my Jon Doesn't Kiss agenda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: The day Martin meets his new boss, he goes home and coughs up a daisy. Things get worse from there.(A Hanahaki AU.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 231





	tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine

Martin’s new boss is nice. Well, no, he isn’t  _ nice, _ he’s cool at best and a little rude at worst, but Martin’s seen worse. He’s clever, though, and he has a nice voice, and he wears a sweater vest better than anyone Martin’s ever seen before; it doesn’t look cheesy at all, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a pencil tucked into his bun. Martin’s never actually seen anyone tuck a pencil into their bun before, but somehow it works on Jon.

Okay. It’s a crush. He can handle a crush. Plenty of people get crushes on their bosses, and it’s fine. The disdain in Jon’s voice when he turns away the cup of tea Martin brought him makes Martin’s heart ache, which probably says something about Martin that he doesn’t care to examine too closely. Martin just drinks the tea himself, his throat suddenly a little dry, inclined to cough.

The cough gets worse throughout the day, until he has to go and ask Rosie if she has any cough drops. He goes from clearing his throat every five minutes to fully hacking into his elbow by the time he gets home, and he drops his bag and stumbles into the bathroom, leaning over the toilet and retching.

A single, crumpled Gerber daisy falls out of his mouth.

If there’s one thing Martin Blackwood is good at, it’s compartmentalizing. He flushes the flower down the toilet, not caring what it’ll do to the plumbing, and carefully takes the panic and the roiling in his gut and locks them away for later. The first thing you learn when they teach you about Hanahaki Disease in school is to take careful notes and call your doctor right away, so he opens the notes app on his phone, types out the date, time, and type of flower, and then pulls up the number to his doctor’s office.

“We can see you tomorrow morning,” the receptionist tells him when he explains, her voice studiously kind.

It’s not a good look to show up late on your second day of work, but Martin can’t see a way around it, so he texts Jon, offering to stay late to make up for the lost time.  _ Fine, _ is all the response he gets.

Martin loses that night. It happens sometimes, more often since his mum moved out, some nights just stretching out to infinity. He wakes in the morning feeling like he’d just spent a week alone in his apartment, and has to check the date to make sure he hasn’t missed his appointment.

The first thing the doctor does is hustle him in for an X-ray. While it develops, she takes Martin into an exam room and questions him. “Assuming this is Hanahaki, the more information we have from the start, the better,” she says. “Do you have any idea who it could be?” Martin nods miserably. “And how long have you known them?”

Martin blushes to the tips of his hair. “I only met him yesterday.”

“Hey, this is a good thing,” the doctor says, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s rare with Hanahaki that we have an exact start date to the condition. It makes predicting the future so much easier.”

“Predicting the future,” Martin repeats hollowly. “You mean predicting my death.”

“Not necessarily,” she says, stern but kind. “Not even probably. You have options, Martin.”

He squirms in the uncomfortable chair. “It’s just, you hear all the horror stories about the surgery. People losing their ability to love entirely, people losing their memories...”

“The technique’s come a long way since the early days,” the doctor says reassuringly. “Now all that’s taken is the love for the one person in question. No one’s lost their memory in close to ten years, and many patients go on to form loving, lasting romantic partnerships with other people. It’s a pretty good option.”

There’s a knock on the door. A nurse sticks a folder through and retreats. The doctor hangs the X-ray on the light board on the wall. “Well, there we have it,” she says, pointing to a tiny black blob in Martin’s left lung. “It’s Hanahaki for sure. The size confirms your start date of yesterday; I’ve never seen a bulb that small before at diagnosis.” Martin gamely peers at the image but it makes him a bit sick and he has to look away quickly. If the doctor notices, she doesn’t let on. “Like I said, we have an exact start date, which gives us an exact date of the last chance to try the surgery.” She sits back down and Martin sinks back into his own chair.

“Five years,” Martin ventures.

“Four years, three hundred sixty-four days until it becomes totally inoperable. The risks get higher the longer you wait, but like I said, the process has come a long way in recent years.” She pats his arm again and he almost melts at the touch. “You’re entitled to free counseling for the entirety of the five years, or until you make your decision. I can’t make it for you, although as a medical professional I have a very firm opinion.”

That’s to make him laugh, and he manages a weak chuckle. She smiles. “Are there any other questions I can answer for you?”

Martin shakes his head and leaves the office with several pamphlets and the number to a Hanahaki counselor that does Skype appointments. The whole ordeal took less time than he’d budgeted for, so he has time to go home and drop the materials off before going into the office. No risk of any of his coworkers catching sight of them that way. Or Jon. He shudders.

Jon barely acknowledges Martin when he finally makes it in. Martin has to clear his throat, but thankfully nothing comes up. Tim slaps him on the shoulder and passes him a sheaf of paper. “Trial by fire,” he says brightly. “We’re following up on old statements. These are your share.” Sasha has claimed the desk in the corner, and Tim the one in the middle, so it falls to Martin to sit down at the desk closest to Jon’s office. He can see him out of the corner of his eye, head bent close to his computer, wispy tendrils of hair falling down from his bun. No pencil today.

The pencil doesn’t make another appearance, and Jon’s reactions to Martin’s offerings of tea keep getting shorter and ruder, but Martin still hacks up crumpled flower petals in the morning; occasionally a whole flower falls from his mouth into the sink, but that’s rare, and they’re never in very good shape. Martin compartmentalizes. The petals and odd flowers go straight into the compost bin, except for the prettier specimens of petal, which go between the pages of his poetry notebooks. (He’s started writing poetry again. He’s become a caricature of himself, and he knows it.)

Then Jane Prentiss happens.

“Come on, Martin,” every knock seems to hiss to him. “It’ll be quick. Don’t you just want to give in?”

Oh, God help him, he does. He doesn’t want to die choking on flowers, barely a footnote in Jon’s life; eaten by worms is a much more appealing option. Either way no one would miss him, and at least the worms are here  _ now, _ not five interminable years in the future.

He pokes the towels tighter around the doorframe and says nothing.

Eventually she’s gone, no more worms scrabbling at the window. Once he believes it, he bolts, racing for the Institute, for Jon, faster than he’s ever run in his life.

He barges in on Jon,  _ interrupts him, _ but Jon lets him give a statement and then surprises him yet again. “There’s a room in the Archives I use to sleep when working late. I suggest you stay there for now,” he offers, the kindness rough on his tongue. “Nothing will be sneaking through any window cracks.”

That night, tucked into the secure room with a cot he’s never seen before and that Jon offers no explanation about, Martin falls to his hands and knees, gagging and retching and heaving until he finally reaches into his mouth and pulls out a long, slender, perfect orchid. Once he’s caught his breath, he fetches a vase-like object from Artefact Storage and starts researching how to care for it.

There’s a shower on site, for some reason Martin has never been able to discover, so living in the Institute isn’t actually all that bad. Jon lets him expense all his food, which is nice, and there’s a laundromat on the corner. The room is a bit cramped, but all in all, he feels safer than he would have at home. There’s no shortage of CO2 fire extinguishers for the worms, at least, and he finds a corkscrew in the archives kitchen that he takes to carrying around.

Living so close to Jon all the time (Martin refuses to think of it as living  _ with _ Jon; Jon doesn’t live in the archives, no matter how much time he seems to spend there) brings about an increase in both Martin’s petals and his poetry. There’s no compost bin at the Institute, and anyway Martin wouldn’t put his flowers in if there were—too much risk of his coworkers asking questions. He takes to burning the petals in a steel waste bin he steals from Artefact Storage, with the exception of the orchid, which continues to flourish in the purloined vase. The poetry he stashes under a loose floorboard.

They manage to limp along for about three months before it all comes to a head, Jon putting his fist through a wall and releasing the swarm. Sasha flees their safe room to rescue Tim, and that’s when things  _ really _ go to shit.

“Because I’m scared, Martin!” Jon snaps. “The skepticism, feigning ignorance. It just feels safer.” Martin’s heart aches for him, and then his whole chest aches, and no,  _ no, _ not here, not like this. But his petals have never listened to him, and a fistful crawl their way up his throat, his whole body shaking. “Good God,” Jon says, shocked at the sudden ferocity of the coughing fit, and tentatively begins to rub his hand across Martin’s back. “Are you alright? Damn, we don’t have any water.”

“Water won’t help,” Martin tries to say, but all he manages is a gag. He claps his hand over his mouth, trying to scrape the petals off his tongue without Jon seeing, but one slips between his fingers and falls gently to the floor.

“Good God,” Jon says again, quieter. Martin puts his back to the wall and slides down, gasping for air. After a moment, Jon sits, cross-legged, a careful three feet away from him. “I can pretend I didn’t see that,” he offers.

Martin shakes his head, the damp petals still clutched in his fist. “I don’t suppose there was a chance I could keep it secret forever. Not with me living here.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, until finally Jon clears his throat. “Is there— Is there any hope? With the person?”

Martin laughs, loud and long and wretched. Jon doesn’t know. God help him, somehow Jon hasn’t worked it out, and that’s just the funniest goddamn thing Martin’s ever heard. “Not a chance.”

“Oh.” Jon’s fingers drum on his knee. “Then... Then I hope you choose to live. Assuming we survive this. No one’s worth dying for.”

“I’ve already proven that I think he is.” There, that’s the biggest hint Martin can give him, and if Jon doesn’t put it all together  _ now, _ Martin washes his hands of it. But there’s no time for anything, no time to think, because Tim comes crashing through the wall.

\----

“He’s not well,” Martin tries feebly as Tim paces around the room.

“He’s  _ stalking us, _ Martin,” Tim snaps.

“Yeah, I know, but he needs  _ help, _ not anger.”

“He needs  _ help? _ He needs a  _ police officer,” _ Tim sneers. “I know you’re flattered, Martin, but it’s  _ bad _ that he’s stalking us, okay?”

That stings. “I’m not happy about it, okay?” Martin snaps back. “I’m just saying, approaching him about it in anger isn’t going to do any good.”

“Well, I’m angry!” Tim all but shouts. “So yeah, I’m going to  _ approach him in anger. _ And frankly, I don’t know why  _ you’re _ not angry at him, given—” He stops suddenly, a look on his face like he may have just crossed a line.

“Given what?” Martin asks nervously. When Tim doesn’t answer, he demands, “Given  _ what, _ Tim?”

Tim sighs, some of the pissed-off tension leaching from his shoulders. “Look, you’re not as good at hiding it as you think you are, alright?” Martin’s stomach sinks. “He’s  _ literally killing you, _ Martin, and now he’s stalking you, and doing God knows what else! You should be furious!”

“That—That’s not his fault,” Martin stammers. “It’s  _ not his fault, _ I’m not going to hold my—hold it against him. And I will  _ not,” _ he goes on, steadying, “have my, my  _ condition _ be a subject of gossip in the office, you have no right—”

“Yeah, alright, alright,” Tim says, holding up his hands in surrender. “We don’t gossip about you, Martin. I don’t even know if Sasha knows, I’ve never talked to her about it. I promise.”

Martin subsides, uncharacteristic anger still burning in his chest. It’s just embarrassment, but for a moment he understands how Tim feels. “Look, I’m not saying we do nothing. We could... We could stage an intervention, maybe? Talk to Elias?”

Martin can  _ see _ the muscles around Tim’s eyes tense as he refrains from rolling them, but he just nods and sinks down next to him. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is  _ not what I signed up for.” _

“It’s not what Jon signed up for either,” Martin reminds him gently. This time Tim does roll his eyes. “Look, I’ve been meaning to do some reading,” he goes on. “I’m gonna find some resources on, on PTSD, and stuff like that. If I find anything good I’ll send them your way?”

Tim drops his head even further between his arms. “I suppose I deserved that,” he says. “Fine, send them to me. I’ll even promise to read the first sentence.”

“I’ll take it.”

\----

“We have to get out of here.”

“We  _ can’t _ get out of here,” Tim says, despairing. “There’s no way out.”

“Yes there  _ is.” _ Martin pounds his fists against the wall uselessly. “Helen Richardson got out.”

“Yeah, only to get trapped again!” Tim points out. He puts his back to the wall and sinks onto his heels. “Face it, Martin, we’re trapped. It’s been  _ days.” _

Martin shakes his head. “I don’t accept that.” They need to get out.  _ He _ needs to get out, because something was after Jon, and Martin couldn’t take it if Jon died, all alone, without Martin there to help. He has to get to Jon. Jon needs them.

He hasn’t coughed, the whole time they’ve been stuck in the corridors there hasn’t been a single petal, but as he thrusts his fists against the wall again and thinks of Jon, his chest convulses and it’s like all of the backlog fights its way out of his throat at once. “Jesus,” Tim cries, shooting to his feet and catching Martin as he staggers, coughing fit to burst. “Jesus, don’t die on me, Martin, I don’t want to be alone in here.”

Martin can’t answer. His eyes are streaming, one hand on Tim’s shoulder and the other flat against the wall as he coughs and hacks and gags and sucks in breath. Petals fall from his lips, and then full flowers, some of them with stems attached, forming a small pile at his feet. Finally, finally, he gives one almighty retch and the back of his throat clears. He spits a carnation onto the pile and gasps. “Jesus,” Tim says again, still clutching his arms. “You alright?”

“It’s this way,” Martin says, suddenly sure. He grabs Tim and drags him through the first door on the left.

Tim groans when it just reveals another corridor, but all Martin’s instincts are singing, forming an almost visible haze in front of him, and he pulls Tim down the hall. Third door on the right, then the fourth on the right, then the second on the left, then back through the door they just came through, then finally he throws open the first door on the right to reveal tunnel instead of corridor.

“How did you do that?” Tim asks.

“Don’t know. Shut up.” Martin listens with his whole body, but there are no sounds in the tunnel. He has no idea how long it’s been, but whatever was chasing them seems to have vanished. “Come on.”

It’s not hard to find the trap door into the archives. Martin leads the way, making for Jon’s office in the absence of any clues. He opens the door.

“Oh shit,” Tim breathes behind him. That’s... That’s an awful lot of blood. And there, in the corner, quaking and staring at the corpse, is Jon.

“Jon,” Martin says, as gently as he can manage with his throat still scraped raw, “what’ve you done?” Jon just gabbles, gaping at the dead body still slumped at the table. “Alright,” Martin says, and steps into the room.

Tim grabs at him. “You can’t go in there, it’s a crime scene!” Martin just shakes him off. Jon needs him right now.

He makes his way over to Jon and crouches down, putting himself between Jon and the body. “Jon,” he says. Jon’s eyes blink slowly and then focus on his face. “You’ve got to go. You’ve got to find somewhere safe and hide. We need to call the police, but you can’t be here when they arrive.” The room is damning, Jon is all over blood, but Martin knows in his bones that Jon didn’t do it, and also that the police will condemn him as soon as look at him. “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

“I... Yes,” Jon says faintly. “Yes, I have some ideas.”

“Alright.” Martin puts his hands to Jon’s elbows and hauls him to his feet. “Don’t look anymore, alright? Just go.” Jon nods and disappears out the door.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Tim says, watching him leave. “I know you love him, but he killed a man, Martin.”

Martin shakes his head. “He didn’t do this, Tim. You saw the state of him, there’s no way.”

“Who, then?” Martin just shakes his head again and pulls out his phone to call the police.

\----

Reading the statements makes the petals stop. Not forever, but Martin doesn’t cough for about twenty-four hours after each statement he reads. He would have thought reading them would have made  _ more _ petals come; it makes him think of Jon, after all, makes his heart ache with missing him. Instead he gets little reprieves. He thinks he understands, a little, when Jon comes back with tales of entities and the Beholding, but it’s too big for him. Mostly he’s just desperately relieved Jon’s back, seemingly none the worse for wear despite being  _ kidnapped. Twice. _

When Martin finds out Jon has been in contact with Melanie basically the whole time, he coughs up a rose. With thorns.

Jon draws Martin aside as soon as the plans are set, one small hand on Martin’s elbow holding him back as the others file out of the tunnels. “Listen, are you sure about this?” he asks, eyes boring into Martin’s. “Your role in this, I mean.”

Dry-mouthed, Martin nods. “I know, and I’m sure. I can do this.”

“He’s not going to hold back at all,” Jon says. His hand is still on Martin’s arm. “She hides it well but he left Melanie a wreck, and he’ll do worse to you.”

“I know. I understand.” Martin musters up a smile. “I can take it.”

“I worry about you.”

For once, the petals work their way easily up from his lungs, requiring a mere clearing of his throat to dislodge them. He pulls them out of his mouth, as discreetly as he can manage, and he sees something click into place behind Jon’s eyes. “I appreciate that,” Martin says gently, “but I’ll be alright.”  _ I’ve heard worse, _ he doesn’t add, thinking of his mother. “I’m more worried about you.”

Jon looks like he wants to say any number of things—he looks like he’s been slapped with a fish; it’s almost enough to make Martin laugh—but all he commits to is, “I know. But we have to do this.”

“I know,” Martin says. “And I have to do my part, too.”

“Alright.” Jon sighs. “Alright.”

In the end, Martin’s right. The knowledge Elias pushes on him is horrible, it’s worse than anything Martin could have imagined, it breaks his heart, but he was right to be more worried about Jon.

\----

Peter Lukas is a character. Martin barely notices him at first, too numb with grief for Tim and Sasha and even for Daisy, and trying desperately not to grieve for Jon (he isn’t breathing but he  _ isn’t dead, _ and Martin clings to that, and to every petal he coughs up), but eventually the man corners him. “Leave the archives,” he says in that pleasant tone of his. “Come and work for me directly.” He chortles to himself, a private joke making him smile. “I’m not as micro a manager as Elias was, I promise.”

Martin declines, of course. The archives is his home, the archives is  _ Jon, _ and what’s left of his little family, Melanie and Basira padding around in the same state of shock he is. He can’t leave them.

That weekend, Martin’s mother dies. A medication problem, they tell him; somehow her carefully-calculated dose packs four times its normal punch, and her heart gives out. The nursing home is careful not to admit any responsibility, and Martin’s too numb to push, just takes the business card for the funeral home they push on him and makes the arrangements. She’s buried two days later.

Martin goes to the hospital the night after he puts his mother in the ground and abandons all his dignity, pleading with Jon to come back, weeping and coughing up petals, and then he goes home and gives Jon a week. Jon doesn’t wake up. Martin leaves his orchid at his mother’s grave and goes to Peter.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Peter says, a wide smile plastered across his face. “This is the right decision.”

“Whatever,” Martin replies. “What are my new duties?”

Martin packs up his desk in the archives, moves to his new spot hidden away by Peter’s office. Melanie and Basira watch him go in silence.

“Hanahaki is a Lonely disease, you know,” Peter tells him a week later, cocking his head to one side.

“I guess that makes sense,” Martin says. In all the statements, it’s love that gets you out of the Lonely, but he’s loved without reciprocation all his life. He knows the truth.

He remembers something. “Is that how I got Tim and me out of the corridors?”

“One entity can’t exist within another,” Peter says. “Not for long. You’ve been touched by the Lonely for a long time, Martin, so it’s a good thing you’re giving in to that. Your symptoms should lessen the deeper you go. Give yourself over entirely, and you’ll be cured.”

It’s tempting, compared with two years of coughing up flowers and then dying for a dead man, or having his lungs open and scraped clean. Martin just shows Peter how to reset his email password and doesn’t say anything.

His symptoms do lessen, his daily purgings dropping down to every other day, then twice weekly. One day, though, four months into working for Peter, Martin is forced to his knees, gagging up what turns out to be a lily, perfect like his orchid. Peter comes in as Martin is wiping spit from his chin, staring at the flower on the floor, and sighs. “I’m reluctant to tell you this,” he says as Martin picks up the flower and drags himself back into his chair, “but you’ll hear it eventually; better it be from me. The Archivist is awake.” He catches Martin’s eye, a rarity. “Don’t let it distract you from our mission.”

“I won’t,” Martin promises. Lies. Peter nods at him and vanishes again.

Jon’s awake.  _ Jon’s awake. _ Everything changes. Martin presses the lily between the pages of a book stolen from the library as he settles on his new mission.

He can’t resist going by the archives, letting Jon catch a glimpse of him and stealing a glimpse of his own in return. Something’s different about Jon, something in the way he holds himself, the gleam in his eye as he looks at Martin. Martin pays for it with a flood of coughing and petals once he’s back in private, but luckily Peter isn’t there to see, or at least isn’t visible and doesn’t bring it up.

His symptoms get worse again, and then one day, abruptly, they end. He wakes up gagging, running into the bathroom as something much more solid than a petal works its way up his esophagus.  _ This is how I die, _ Martin thinks as he throws himself over the bowl and strains for breath.  _ Alone in the bathroom, choking on love. _ But he doesn’t die; whatever it is finally dislodges itself into his mouth. He spits it into his hand. It looks like a tulip bulb, but rounder. He buries it behind the Institute.

“The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it,” Jon says to him, weeks later.

“You know, I think it always did,” Martin replies, rubbed raw into honesty by having what he’s always wanted dangled in front of his face when he can’t reach out and take it.

Jon hesitates before leaving. “You don’t... You don’t have Hanahaki anymore,” he says, a hint of a question turning up the ends of his words. Martin shakes his head. “Does that change the calculus for you at all?” He sounds hopeful.

“I don’t see how it can,” Martin tells him. “It just shows I’m too far along to stop now.”

“You’re not,” Jon says immediately. His face is hard to look at; stubbornness and something that looks like heartbreak warring together. Martin loves him desperately. “It’s not too late, Martin,  _ I’m here. _ Just tell me you need help.”

Martin laughs again, hollow. “I don’t need your help, Jon.” Jon’s help would only make it worse.

\----

The Lonely is  _ perfect. _ Martin sinks into it like a feather bed, letting the fog wrap around him and smother out all the pain, all the lost love. He did it. He thwarted Peter, he saved Jon, and now he gets to rest.

Jon finds him, somehow, ripping the clouds away from him and demanding he pay attention. “I really loved you, you know,” Martin tells him. “Enough to choke on it.” Jon screams for him again and Martin vanishes; it hurts too much to look at him, and this isn’t a place for pain.

He feels the death of Peter Lukas like a ripple in a pond. Peter’s life is twisted into the fabric of the Lonely, and when he’s ripped apart, all the fog goes thin and Martin can see to the very edges, can see all the people packed into the Lonely, into their own little nests. He’s grateful when it thickens again and hides them all from view.

Jon finds him again, of course he does, because Martin is one of his people and if the coffin proved anything, it proved that Jon doesn’t leave his people behind. “I need you,” he says, all gritted teeth and strained hands, and if that isn’t the funniest goddamn thing Martin’s ever heard.

“No, you don’t,” Martin says, “not really.” No one needs Martin. That’s the whole  _ point _ of Martin. Every hand he’s ever reached out has been slapped away, and the Lonely has been living in his lungs for three years, in his heart for longer.

“Martin,” Jon says firmly, and  _ doesn’t he ever give up. _ “Martin, look at me.” Martin looks, ever obliging.  _ “Look at me and tell me what you see.” _

“I see...” What Martin  _ can’t _ see is the point of this exercise. It’s just Jon. Martin knows Jon’s face better than he knows his own, from three years’ worth of longing looks and poetry, from hours spent at his hospital bedside. Jon, with his long hair and his piercing dark eyes and his scars. Jon, who’s staring at Martin like... Like he’s something precious, something that Jon is about to lose.

Jon, who he fought for. Jon, who he lied and cheated and coughed for.  _ Jon. _

“I see you,” Martin says, and dives forward into arms that are already reaching for him. “I was all on my own,” Martin says, shaking, and he doesn’t mean just the past few hours in the Lonely.

“Not anymore.” Jon’s arms are tight around him. It’s the first proper hug Martin’s had in a long, long time.

The minute they’re out of the Lonely, back in the Panopticon, Martin falls to the floor like his strings have been cut. Jon’s still holding his hand and follows him down. “Little shaky?” he asks, trying for a laugh.

Martin tries to answer, to say yes, but instead he giggles, and then he chuckles, and then he’s laughing so hard tears are streaming down his face, but no, the tears are because he’s sobbing like his heart could possibly break again. “Oh, hey, hey,” Jon says, wrapping an arm around Martin’s shoulders as he shakes. “It’s alright, Martin.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin gasps after a few minutes. “It’s like I’m... I’m feeling every emotion at once.”

“You’ve been dancing with the Lonely for months,” Jon says, rubbing a hand across his back. “I guess it makes sense. It’s okay, just try and keep breathing.” Martin hiccups but tries to obey, and slowly fights himself back into a level of equanimity. “There you go,” Jon says soothingly, hand still going on Martin’s back.

They sit together in silence for a few minutes. Martin gives a little chuckle, this time controlled and sad. “Wonder if this means my petals will come back.”

Jon gives him an odd look. “Why would they?”

“It’s a Lonely disease, Peter said,” Martin explains. “When I got too deep into the Lonely, it went away.”

Jon looks astonished, and then it’s his turn to laugh. “Martin,” he says, hand stilling on Martin’s back, and have his eyes always been that warm? When did they turn liquid? “That’s not why.”

“What?”

“That’s not why your Hanahaki was cured. I’ve no doubt it can happen, but it wasn’t the case for you.”

“Oh.” Martin sits back. “Then...” Jon is patient with him as his mind creaks. His eyes are still burning hot. “Really?”

“Really,” Jon says, a smile in his voice.

It’s not enough. Martin can’t believe it, no matter how hard he tries, and he’s  _ trying; _ he’s never wanted to believe something so much in his whole life. “I need you to say it, Jon, I can’t—”

“I love you,” Jon says, smooth as butter, and Martin sinks his face into his hands.

“I love you too,” he gasps into his palms.

Jon laughs. “I gathered as much.” Martin wipes his face and looks up. “Do you believe me?” Jon asks, quieter.

Slowly, Martin nods. “Can I kiss you?” It’s out of his mouth before he can think. Jon’s face falls, and Martin is already backtracking. “It’s okay, it’s stupid, I shouldn’t have asked—”

“No, no,” Jon cuts him off. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question when someone tells you they’re in love with you.” He bites his lip. “It’s not you, it’s... It’s anyone. I don’t... I  _ can’t...” _

“It’s okay,” Martin says again. “I mean, I heard... It’s okay. It’s a limit. I understand.”

Jon smiles at him, heartbreakingly grateful. “I do also feel the urge to, to mark the moment, as it were. How about this.” He picks up Martin’s hand in both of his and presses his lips to the back of it. Books, movies, television; it’s hands-down the most romantic thing Martin’s ever seen, and his eyes fill with tears again. Jon puts one hand on the back of his neck and waits, breathing with him until Martin can control himself again. “Ready to try walking?” he asks when Martin is steady.

Martin nods. “Don’t let go of me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Jon stands and helps Martin to his feet, and hand in hand they leave the Panopticon and the Lonely behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/thewalrus_said)!


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